


East, West, Home's Best

by Junior Anti-Sex League (jrasl)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, Dubious Consent, Genderplay, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Sexual Coercion, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 01:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18458297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jrasl/pseuds/Junior%20Anti-Sex%20League
Summary: Charlie McCormick has spent the last two years getting pawned off on one reluctant relative after another. Shy, pretty and no stranger to being called a sissy, he doesn’t have high hopes when the next in line is his Uncle Jim—an old-fashioned man’s man who works construction and plays the field. But when an impulsive act on Charlie’s part makes Jim realize he’s got a hot little number living right under his own roof, the two are drawn together down the crooked path to domestic bliss.





	East, West, Home's Best

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).



To a lifelong city kid like Charlie McCormick, the town of Pineford was nothing short of far out. It lay tucked in the bend of a winding river, green and pretty, looking like something off one of those Monday night television shows about a good-hearted scamp or a widower sheriff. If you were gazing down from a little ways up—say, having been dragged along with your uncle’s construction crew to the tony neighborhood on the hill—you could count each block from one end of town to another, but you didn’t have a hope of starting in on the trees.

There wasn’t a single skyscraper in Pineford. All the tidy brick buildings on Main Street topped out at three or four stories like they didn’t see any need to show off. Up here on Meadowview Road, the houses were the big white kind with columns around the front door, but down in the valley lay a whole candy dish of bungalows painted in colors like Sunburst Yellow, Midday Blue, Spruce Green and Coral Pink.

No amount of money in the world would have made Charlie admit to knowing colors like that. A boy could get away with reading an issue of _The Family Handyman_ now and then, but he would get his nose bloodied in Colonial Red if anyone knew he sighed over the pages of _House Beautiful_.

Charlie had arrived in Pineford three weeks ago after wearing out his welcome with his Aunt Nancy in Chicago. He could see the roadside bus stop down there at the edge of town, a few streets over from the high school where he’d enrolled late for the fall semester and where he figured he would stay until he wore out his welcome here too. Even though it was a Saturday, there were little specks running around in the field behind the school. Charlie guessed they were playing football, but it wasn’t his area of expertise.

“Watch out, McCormick—I think the kid’s going to jump!”

Charlie’s head shot up.

There were a couple of chuckles from around the yard, followed by a belt of real laughter when someone else chimed in: “I think this one would just flutter away.”

He felt his face go hot. While he knew he’d just been the butt of a joke, it took him a second to realize he wasn’t the ‘McCormick’ who’d been addressed. From over by the truck, the only one of the four-man crew not laughing, his Uncle Jim looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“Get back to work, Charlie.”

Blushing even harder, Charlie turned away from his view of the town and picked up a stray twig to throw into the wheelbarrow. Uncle Jim hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t needed to.

Charlie had only known three things about his uncle before getting shipped down here to live with him: he was his father’s younger brother, he’d learned to be an electrician in the army, and he hadn’t settled down yet. This last part was the only thing that had made Charlie’s maternal aunts and grandparents hem and haw for a few days over the telephone. They were all for letting his father’s side of the family take their turn dealing with him, but no one had been able to decide if a mixed-up kid like Charlie was going to be a lost cause if he didn’t go to a real home with a married couple or if living alone with someone who had done two tours in Korea was just what he needed.

Maybe he should have been able to guess that Uncle Jim would be intimidating, with a way of talking that made you scared not to listen. But no one had seen fit to warn Charlie that he was so handsome.

Uncle Jim was six feet tall and square-jawed. His hair was somewhere between blonde and brown, and his eyes were blue-gray. According to one of the medals Charlie had stumbled on, he had once been an All Army heavyweight, and he still had the kind of chest and arms that said he could pick up his gloves again at a moment’s notice. The resemblance to Charlie’s father was there, but only if you looked close. Charlie had spent a lot of time poring over the few surviving photographs of his father and had long ago decided that he could have been a movie star if he’d wanted to be. But if Bill McCormick had looked like he should play the lead in some romantic picture, or at least the rich love rival, Jim McCormick was made for westerns and war movies.

As for any resemblance between Uncle Jim and Charlie himself, their eyes were all they had in common. Even then, where Uncle Jim’s were steely, Charlie’s were wide and ringed with the kind of long, dark eyelashes that belonged on a girl. Charlie might not be finished growing yet, but he already knew he was never going to be a boxer or get cast as a Hollywood tough guy. He took after his mother, short and delicately built. The shape of his face was too soft, and his lips were too pink. “Cute” was what the girls at his last school had called him. “Sissy” was the word that signaled trouble from the boys.

His chest ached with leftover embarrassment as he remembered the ride from the bus stop to Uncle Jim’s apartment. Slouched in the passenger seat with damp palms, stunned by the realization that _this_ was his uncle, Charlie had only managed a shy “yes” and “okay” when Uncle Jim had first double-checked that high school was where he was supposed to be and then promised to get him signed up for classes. 

_“They’ve got a good football team,”_ Uncle Jim had said, then immediately seemed to regret it when he glanced at Charlie and came to the obvious conclusion that even junior Pop Warner would leave him a smear on the field. There was a pause that lasted a beat too long before he said, _“So, is baseball your game? Basketball?”_

Charlie’s shoulders had drawn in even further. Tongue-tied, he’d looked awkwardly out the window at all those white picket fences around big green lawns and managed to mutter that sports weren’t really his bag. 

He had been sure that Uncle Jim would demand to know what kind of boy didn’t like sports. The only fielding Charlie had ever done was of questions like that, especially from the man friends his mother had brought home, who would all try to win him over with offers to throw a ball around. But Uncle Jim had only frowned, and while Charlie now knew the distance they drove could be crossed on foot in under twenty minutes, the rest of the silent ride had seemed to take a very long time. 

This had set the tone for the next three weeks. Uncle Jim was the kind of man who had come home from the bar last weekend with bruises on his knuckles and none on his face, but he wasn’t mean to Charlie. He didn’t yell at him or hit him, and he hadn’t even lectured him about earning his keep the way his aunts’ husbands had. He just didn’t seem to know what to make of him, like Charlie had pulled up in a flying saucer instead of a Greyhound bus and stepped off gabbling in Martian. 

Charlie understood the feeling as he looked around at the rest of Uncle Jim’s crew. This wasn’t the same kind of construction he was used to seeing in the city—just adding a conservatory to someone’s house instead of putting up a whole building—but it was the same kind of men doing it. They were all twice Charlie’s size, with dirty hands, dirty work boots and dirty mouths. Most of their jokes barely brushed the top of his head, and so did their conversations about cars and fishing, chicks they knew and chicks they wanted to know, and whether there was going to be time for one more good weekend of camping before the nights got too cold.

Work had started early enough that you could still see your breath, but the day was getting warm now. The men had all stripped down from flannel to t-shirts, and Charlie was trying not to stare at any of them without looking like he needed to try. He was on trash duty, going back and forth between the house and the trucks, clearing out the shrubbery that had been uprooted to make room for the extension and picking up other scraps. This let him keep his head down for the most part, but it also let him steal a few peeks on the sly when his self-control slipped.

Mr. Jackson the foreman was probably in his forties and was starting to go soft around the middle, but his shoulders were a mile wide and he slung around stacks of two-by-fours with an ease that made Charlie’s palms prickle. Mr. Da Silva and Mr. Green, or Mike and Dave as they’d insisted, were younger and more wiry. Charlie really liked Mike’s tan and the mermaid tattoo on Dave’s left arm. Then there was Uncle Jim, whose sleeves stretched tight over his biceps. His hair looked really nice with the sun on it, and there was something distracting about the way his tool belt hung on his hips. Charlie could see the outline of his pecs through the thin white cotton of his t-shirt, and if he let his gaze drop—

Nope. Hold up. No way.

It was one thing to pay attention to chests and arms, and even to the occasional tool belt. Charlie knew deep down that his interest wasn’t casual, but he could pretend otherwise when he was only looking from the waist up. After all, maybe he just thinking about working out. Maybe he was looking for pointers on how to pick up something heavy. But there was no getting around what it meant to stare at the bulge in a man’s jeans. Worse when those jeans and that bulge belonged to your own relative. Even worse when knowing all that still didn’t stop you from getting a case of the hots.

He pulled at his shirt collar, trying to get some air moving. Maybe it was time to take a breather in the driveway, he thought, giving the wheelbarrow a hard shove. This proved to be a mistake.

“Whoa!”

Pushed too hard and fast, the wheelbarrow had started to tip. Charlie stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet, and barely managed to right it. He took a quick look around, hoping no one had seen him make an idiot of himself. Uncle Jim was already dusting his hands off on his jeans and striding over to him.

“It’s fine,” Charlie said hurriedly. “I just—”

“Keep the weight over the wheel. That way it won’t tip.” Uncle Jim reached into the bed of the wheelbarrow and rearranged the load.

“Okay,” Charlie said. “I will. That’s good to—”

But all the air left his lungs as Uncle Jim came around behind him. He was warm, as hot as the afternoon sun against Charlie’s back. He smelled like sweat and sawdust, and his hands were big enough to entirely cover Charlie’s as he lifted the wheelbarrow out of its rut.

“Got it?”

What Charlie got was a hard-on. It sprang up sudden and fierce, pushing against his briefs. The rest of him went just as rigid, painfully aware of every place where Uncle Jim’s body was touching his.

“Got it,” he squeaked, pulling the handles up a little higher so the mound in the wheelbarrow hid him from the waist down.

Uncle Jim stepped away, but neither the breathing room nor the fear of being discovered did anything to make his dick go down. Charlie wasn’t totally green when it came to unwanted hard-ons, and he knew the difference between the kind that came and went every time the wind changed directions and the kind that wanted something. Aware that no amount of long division was going to make this one go away, he blurted out:

“Um, is there a bathroom?”

Uncle Jim nodded toward the far side of the house. “Go water one of those bushes.”

Charlie’s cheeks had already been warming up again, but now even his ears blazed. He bit his lip, his dick throbbing hard enough that for a second he wondered if maybe he actually could get away with doing something quick behind the house. Mercifully, Uncle Jim seemed to mistake his agony for embarrassment at the thought of peeing in public. He got that look on his face like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with Charlie, then turned to call over his shoulder.

“Hey, Phil—did the old lady take off?”

“About an hour ago,” Mr. Jackson said. “Said she was going to the beauty parlor.”

Uncle Jim’s usual ‘listen up’ expression had an extra heap of sternness on top when he turned back to Charlie. “Don’t track any mud inside, and don’t touch anything in there.”

Charlie nodded fervently, trying very hard not to think about what he was planning to touch. He beat feet before his face could give him away, pushing the wheelbarrow quickly but steadily over to the driveway. Once there, he paused for a second behind the cover of one of the trucks to do a little strategic adjusting and then slipped into the house through the side door with his hands jammed in his pockets.

Inside, everything was cooler and quieter. The work sounds were muffled, and his footsteps echoed very slightly in the airy hallway. He found the downstairs bathroom, which was so dainty and decorative that it was probably called a powder room instead. The second the door was locked behind him, he pulled open his jeans and yanked down his briefs.

Thinking about other guys when you were touching yourself was as sissy as it got, he knew that. However, just about the only thing he seemed to have in common with the rest of the male race was that his brain didn’t work when his dick was hard. The choice wasn’t between right and wrong—it was between wrong and wronger. Jerking his dick to the thought of guys in general was the lesser of two evils if the alternative was thinking about his own uncle in particular.

Just some guy, he told himself, getting his hand around his dick. He shut his eyes, imagining a broader, rougher grip in place of his own. An older guy. A _man_. Yeah, that was it. Muscles for days under a tight t-shirt damp with sweat. Worn jeans that bulged at the front. No face, no voice, no one specifically, just a built body and a big, huge, throbbing—

“ _Oh_.”

Charlie shot his load so hard it felt like a gut-punch. His vision went blurry as he braced himself on the sink. A spurt of jism arced, followed fast by two more. His breath stuttered as they hit the inside of the rose-colored basin, leaving pearly streaks as they dripped down down to the spout. 

For three seconds of sweet reprieve, maybe three, his mind was pleasantly fuzzy and the knot that always sat between his shoulders came undone. Then, like always, his head cleared and he remembered that there was something really wrong with him. 

After he’d zipped up, Charlie cleaned out the sink with toilet paper and water. He wanted to wash his hands, but he didn’t dare touch any of the tiny fruit-shaped soaps or the fluffy pink towels. He settled for running his hands under the tap and wiping them dry on his pants. 

He knew he ought to go straight back outside, but his curiosity got the better of him when he left the powder room and caught a glimpse of the rest of the house beyond the hallway. This was officially the fanciest place he had ever been, if you didn’t count churches or school trips to the Philadelphia Museum of Art or the Franklin Institute. A couple of cautious steps let him take a gander at the living room, which looked something out of _Modern Homes_. The furniture was a little too skinny and the colors a little too loud for Charlie’s tastes, but it was still impressive to see. He liked the big area rug, which reminded him of peacock feathers, and he couldn’t resist sniffing the flowers that sat on a table so narrow it couldn’t hold anything but an amber vase.

The bouquet was made up of carnations, freesias, and something frilly and purple that Charlie couldn’t identify but liked the smell of. When he was little, before his father died, his mother would buy a bouquet at the grocery store every Friday to put on the kitchen table in their apartment. _“Flowers make a house a home,”_ he remembered her saying. Although when he thought about it, that didn’t really sound like her. Maybe he’d heard it from somebody else’s mother, or on one of those daytime radio shows.

Charlie figured it didn’t count as trespassing if his feet never left the hall runner. He peeked into a dark study lined with hardbound books, then a bright kitchen full of lemon-colored appliances, and then a sophisticated dining room where he was sure the owners of the house held equally sophisticated dinner parties. His daring stopped firm at the idea of going upstairs, and he was about to leave the way he’d come in when a shimmer caught his eye from behind a half-shut door.

He had assumed this was a hall closet, but when he opened the door he found a laundry room. It was small, at least compared to the laundromats that Charlie was used to, but it was sunny and smelled of soap flakes with a hint of bleach. The source of the shimmering turned out be a slip that had been left hanging on the ironing board, rippling in the breeze from the inch of open window. A laundry basket sat on top of the pink washing machine, containing a mound of other silky-looking things.

Charlie’s chest went tight. He knew he shouldn’t go any closer, but his tennis shoes were already squeaking on the checkerboard tiles. 

He sometimes—

He really liked—

The thing was, Charlie’s grandparents had dumped him on Aunt Shirley because they couldn’t take the winters in Philadelphia anymore and were moving to a trailer park in Arizona that didn’t allow anyone under 55. Then Aunt Shirley had dumped him on Aunt Nancy in Chicago because she and Uncle Vinnie had found out they couldn’t get a check from the government for him like they’d thought. These things weren’t Charlie’s fault, aside from his general fault for existing. But Aunt Nancy had dumped him on Uncle Jim because she had caught him with his hand in his pants looking at the underthings she’d left drying over the bathtub one day.

_“You goddamn pervert!”_

Aunt Nancy had dragged him out of the bathroom by his ear, slapping him silly all over with her slipper, screaming like she thought he’d been picturing _her_ in them. Of course, given the fact that he was now thinking funny things about his uncle, Charlie wasn’t actually sure which would have been worse.

He took another step forward before he could stop himself. Aunt Nancy hadn’t told Uncle Jim about what had happened, he was sure of it. She wanted Charlie gone within the week, and he had eavesdropped on her telephone calls to Pineford and heard her talking him up like a lemon she was trying to get off the lot.

_“Think about what your poor brother would have wanted. I promise, you won’t even know he’s there.”_

A pang of spite made Charlie reach out and touch the laundry pile just to prove that he could. Everything was soft and smooth, cool under his fingertips. He was holding his breath and tracing the lacy edge on blue satin when some hammering outside stopped and he heard Uncle Jim’s voice.

“—after my brother died. Then my sister-in-law took off with some real estate agent to fuck-knows-where two years ago and left the kid behind.”

“Must be cramping your style.” This sounded like Dave.

There was a snicker followed by what he thought was Mike’s voice. “So who’s tearing up pussy at Cardinal’s if you’re spending your nights babysitting?”

“The kid can look after himself,” Uncle Jim said. Something heavy hit the ground, covering up whatever he said next. “—swear to God they’ve only got two kinds of girls at Cardinal’s these days. Either they’re hiking up their skirts for everyone in town or they want to wear the pants around the house.”

“I hear you, brother,” Dave said. “They don’t make nice girls like they used to.”

“Is it too much to ask to get a good meal and a good screw without a side of the clap?”

“What you need is a girl who’s still in school,” Mr. Jackson said. “Get ‘em young and show ‘em how it’s done.”

“Aw, those college girls over in Grablehurst don’t go for townies,” Mike said.

“Who said anything about college?” Mr. Jackson asked.

This got the biggest laugh of the day.

When Charlie looked down, he saw that the blue satin panties with the lace trim were now clutched in his sweaty hand. He didn’t even remember picking them up. Startled, he dropped them. They landed untidily on top of all the perfect little bundles. He tried to smooth them out and fold them up to match, but they were already wrinkled from his grasp.

“What’s taking that kid so long?” Uncle Jim said.

Panicking, Charlie gave up and stuffed the panties into his pocket. He quickly patted the top of the basket so it didn’t look like anything was missing and then bolted for the back door before anyone could come looking for him. Outside, he slowed his steps to something that looked less suspicious. He kept his head down as he made a beeline for the wheelbarrow and then got back to work like he was being paid by the twig.

He was going to put them back. That was what he told himself every time his hand crept into his pocket that afternoon. He was only going to hold onto them for a little while until he could ask for another bathroom break. Then he would smuggle them back into the laundry room and hide them at the bottom of the laundry basket or maybe behind the washing machine like they had fallen there by accident. Or maybe, he thought, his mouth running dry, he would take them with him to the powder room first and _then_ to the laundry room.

But the next time he raised his head from his work, Mike and Dave were slinging tarps over the half-built conservatory and Mr. Jackson was calling it a day.

“Come on, Charlie.” Uncle Jim was already carrying his toolbox.

“But I—” Charlie began, his voice too weak to reach anybody’s ears over the flapping of tarps and the growl of Mr. Jackson’s truck starting up.

“Get a move on, kid,” Dave called over to him with a grin. “Old Man Jackson’s not paying overtime.”

Uncle Jim drove a red pick-up truck that always seemed to have different colored lipstick-stained cigarette butts in the passenger side ashtray. There was nothing Charlie could do but climb into the passenger seat and give the house one last desperate look before it disappeared up the slope of the long driveway. Uncle Jim put on the radio and drove past the other fancy houses on Meadowview Road, past Hillside Park and the Uplands Pool, and down to Preston’s Burger Delite. There, he pulled into the drive-through to order two hamburgers with the works, two large fries and two sodas.

Charlie had eaten more take-out in the last three weeks than in the previous three years put together. Uncle Jim had a full kitchen in his apartment, but he only made lunch meat sandwiches when he was at home. They parked and waited for their food. Uncle Jim tapped along to the Rolling Stones on the steering wheel. Nearby, a group of older girls with chocolate-dipped soft serve cones were sitting at one of the picnic tables, and Charlie noticed them noticing Uncle Jim. They were giggling and blushing, and one of them said something that made another one shove her and giggle even harder.

He felt an uncomfortable pang in his stomach that he couldn’t pin a name on. Maybe he was just hungry and a little sun struck. All the same, he was weirdly glad that Uncle Jim didn’t seem to notice them back.

On the way back to the apartment, dinner in its paper sack on the bench seat between them, Charlie leaned against the passenger side window and drank his cherry cola. He stole sidelong glances at Uncle Jim and tried to imagine what those girls had been saying about him. They probably thought he was dreamy and that he looked a little like Paul Newman. They had probably noticed his arms and had been giggling about how strong he was. Maybe they had even thought about whether he could pick them up or hold them down, and what he looked like with his shirt off—

“You did good work today,” Uncle Jim said, glancing over at him as he paused at a stop sign.

Charlie was caught out mid-sip, his cheeks hollowed as he sucked on the straw. He gulped down a mouthful of cherry cola and smiled shyly. “Thanks.”

Uncle Jim suddenly had a funny look on his face. His gaze seemed to linger on Charlie’s lips, and Charlie reflexively licked them in case he’d missed a stray drop of soda. Uncle Jim gave a play-smack on the head that turned into a rough tousling.

“We need to get you a haircut,” he said, sounding weirdly uncomfortable as he put his eyes back on the road. “You’re starting to look like a girl.”

* * *

Uncle Jim lived on Main Street in an apartment that took up the whole third floor of a narrow red brick building. Below it was a lawyer’s office, and below that was a Singer sewing shop with a peppermint striped awning just like in the cartoons. Even though the apartment was big, it only had one bedroom and Charlie slept on the couch from Sunday to Thursday. He got the bed on Friday and Saturday nights when Uncle Jim would go out to the bar and wouldn’t come back until morning, freshly showered or still smelling like beer and cigarettes, smiling lazily to himself as he and Charlie ate cold cereal at the kitchen table.

Twice a week when the Pineford Gazette came out, Uncle Jim would check the classifieds for a two-bedroom apartment and had promised Charlie that he was asking around for any leads. Charlie believed him, but he didn’t want Uncle Jim to hurry on his account. For one thing, he wasn’t sure how long he would even be here. For another, he didn’t mind the place.

True, it definitely looked like a bachelor’s apartment. It only had the bare minimum of mismatched furniture, and the yellowing curtains had probably been up since the war. But it was roomy, quiet and could have passed army inspection. The couch was heaped with blankets and a brand-new pillow, and it was a lot more comfortable than the sleeping bag at Aunt Shirley’s or the cot at Aunt Nancy’s. Charlie even kind of preferred it to the room he’d had at Grandma and Grandpa’s. That had been his mother’s bedroom when she was a little girl, but it had been turned into a guest room full of doilies and china figurines that no one was allowed to touch. Charlie had needed to put the plastic dust cover back on the bed every morning and had spent every night feeling like a bum who had broken into a department store window display.

The only downside to sleeping on Uncle Jim’s couch was that there wasn’t much in the way of storage. Charlie had arrived in Pineford with everything he owned in a garbage bag that was already splitting open at the seam. His school supplies were kept on the coffee table and his clothes were folded underneath it. He initially hid the stolen panties in his gym bag, but he couldn’t shake the fear that they were going to fall out in front of the whole locker room at school, so he eventually stashed them under one of the couch cushions. 

He took them out on the next couple of nights, safe under the cover of darkness. His body tingled all over as he held them, running his fingers along the line of lace and over the little bow on the front. He had to be quiet when he played with himself, going slowly so the springs in the couch wouldn’t squeak and listening close for any sound of Uncle Jim stirring in the bedroom. His hands would be shaking by the time he rubbed the satin over his skin, his face buried in the pillow or the back of the couch to muffle his ragged breathing.

The thought of them followed him to school even if the real article couldn’t. Just knowing they existed, just knowing he _had_ them made him squirm. 

_Hey, Weakling!_ the ad in his movie magazine exclaimed. _Do You Want a He-Man Body?_

Under the headline was the usual strip featuring a beanpole getting sand kicked in his face by a bodybuilder, followed by the spiel about sending in a self-addressed stamped envelope for a book guaranteed to turn you into king of the beach in just fifteen minutes a day. Sitting alone in a corner of the noisy cafeteria, Charlie gazed at the drawing of the hunk and then on the weakling’s bikini-clad girl who was getting carried off over a beefy shoulder.

A small thrill shot through him. Bikinis didn’t excite him the same way that panties did, but the ones in the drawing were pale blue and close enough to his secret prize to steer his mind in that direction. He thought about whether he could sneak the panties into the bathroom tonight, run the faucet for some cover, and finally have the chance to do something where he could really look at them. Then he turned the page and tried to focus on the article about the new John Wayne picture.

“So how was your date with Greg?”

“Oh my God, don’t get me started. He was such a beast.”

Two girls who were either juniors or seniors sat at the next table. The one who had called Greg a beast was a pretty redhead in pink lipstick who was twirling her hair around her finger. The other had brown hair and glasses and was nodding encouragingly as she picked through the fruit cup on her lunch tray. Neither of them paid Charlie any attention. As far as he could tell, everyone here had gone to school together all their lives and didn’t see any reason to start meeting new people now. On his first day, someone had asked him if he was from California, on account of his hair, but people seemed to lose interest when he said he was originally from Philly but had moved here from Chicago. Now he was mostly ignored and referred to only as The New Kid when someone was forced to acknowledge his existence.

“What did he do?” the brunette asked, leaning forward eagerly. She sounded horrified and excited at the same time.

“He pulled the old ‘running out of gas’ routine all the way out in Evansville. I was only going to let him go up my top, but he stole third.”

“That louse! Did you put up a fight?”

“Of course I did!” The redhead paused. “Well, I would have if he’d given me the chance.”

Charlie thought suddenly about what Mr. Jackson had said about high school girls. The redhead was probably one of the best-looking girls in school. She reminded Charlie a little of Sandy Thomas from back in Chicago, who everyone said went around with older guys in exchange for cigarettes. He didn’t know who Greg was, but he pictured one of the senior football players forcing his hand up the redheaded girl’s short skirt. He knew as he imagined it that he should be casting himself as the football player, but he was thinking instead of how it wouldn’t be his fault if someone a whole lot stronger than him pushed him down in the backseat of a car and forced his legs apart and—

He hit the brakes on that thought and stealthily fanned himself with the magazine. There was only five minutes before the bell would ring for next period. He would have to think about icebergs and save this daydream for later.

Despite the wild places his mind was roaming that day, the one thing he never imagined was that his secret was being discovered.

* * *

Charlie got in from school that afternoon to find Uncle Jim waiting for him in the living room.

 _You Don’t Say!_ was playing on the television, and a copy of the newspaper lay on the coffee table open to the classified ads. Next to the newspaper was an open bottle of Schlitz. Next to the bottle was a wad of blue satin.

Charlie’s school books slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a thud.

Uncle Jim stood up and switched off the television. The studio audience’s laughter died. The apartment was suddenly too quiet. 

“You been skipping school to bring girls around here?”

The accusation was so far from the truth that at first Charlie couldn’t even wrap his head around it. “What? I—no!”

He immediately regretted not saying yes.

“Then where did those come from, huh?”

So many lies tried to get out all at once that they jammed in his throat. He shook his head, looking everywhere but at the coffee table, as if he could erase the panties out of existence if he just pretended he didn’t see them.

Uncle Jim made a frustrated sound and took a step toward him. Charlie reversed, his hands coming up in self-defense, and the littlest of the lies was knocked out of him as his back hit the wall. 

“I was going to put them back!”

Steely blue eyes narrowed at him. “What did you do, steal them off a clothesline?”

“No! I just—they were just—I just picked them up and I was going to put them back, but then we left—”

He snapped his mouth shut, but it was too late. Uncle Jim’s face hardened as the pieces came together, and his eyes flashed.

“You took them from the Meadowview place? Jesus Christ, kid! Are you trying to get me blackballed?”

Charlie froze where he stood, then tried to make a run for it. 

“Oh no, you don’t!”

He hadn’t made it two steps before Uncle Jim caught him by the front of his shirt and nearly lifted him off his feet.

“You know what happens if things go missing when I’m on a job? You think I keep getting work after that? How about we go back there, huh? You can knock on the door and tell Mrs. Brooks and her daughter how you’re a panty-sniffing perv.”

With freeze and flight having failed, fight was all that was left. Charlie twisted and kicked, pushing desperately at the brick wall of Uncle Jim’s chest. “I didn’t! I’m not! _Please!_ ”

Uncle Jim grabbed his flailing arms in a grip like hot steel, just one of his big hands enough to hold both of Charlie’s wrists.

“I wasn’t doing that, I wasn’t doing anything,” Charlie babbled, horrified at the thought of having to face the rightful owner of what he had stolen. “Please don’t make me—I just wanted—”

“Just wanted what?” Uncle Jim demanded.

“I just wanted to see if they’d fit!”

The instant the words left his mouth, he knew he’d hurled himself out of the frying pan of one awful accusation into the fire of a worse one. He also knew that whether he had fully admitted it to himself or not, it was the truth. He hadn’t just wanted to look at them. He hadn’t just wanted to touch them.

Uncle Jim let go of him. It was the first time Charlie had ever seen him look surprised.

His heart pounding in his throat, Charlie shrank back against the wall.

“You been wearing these?” Uncle Jim asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“No—no, I swear!”

Uncle Jim just looked at him. _Really_ looked at him, like he was seeing him for the very first time. Like he finally understood what Charlie was. Like he finally knew what he was supposed to do with him. The hair on the back of Charlie’s neck stood up.

“Let’s see it.”

The words made no sense to Charlie. He stared at his uncle, baffled. “I don’t—see what?”

Uncle Jim kept looking at him. His jaw worked silently for a moment, and then he nodded, seemingly more to himself than to Charlie. “You said you wanted to see if they fit. So go on. Let’s see it.”

Charlie’s head spun. He wondered dizzily if maybe this was like when he was ten and his mother had caught him stealing a cigarette from her purse. She had sat him down at the kitchen table and told him that if he wanted to take up smoking, he could damn well sit there and smoke the whole back. He had made it halfway through the second one before throwing up on the floor, at which point he had learned his lesson and never wanted to smoke again.

Uncle Jim backed up, his eyes never leaving Charlie, and sat down on the couch again. Charlie glanced uncertainly at the panties, his gaze nearly flinching away. It was one thing to look at them alone. It was another to look at them in front of somebody else and see them for exactly what they were.

“Go on,” Uncle Jim said softly. It was the kind of tone that said it didn’t need to be any louder because no one was going to say no.

Charlie stepped forward, snatched up the panties, and stepped back again. He hesitated, looking quickly at Uncle Jim’s face, waiting for him to laugh and reveal that it was just some kind of bluff to teach him a lesson. Waiting for his mouth to twist up in disgust at the fact that Charlie was some kind of sicko who would have actually done it.

But Uncle Jim just took a drink of his beer.

Charlie’s hands were shaking as he unzipped. His shoes—right, he had to take those off first. He scuffled out of them awkwardly and then took off his pants. The panties weren’t going to fit over his briefs. Worse, he realized with a hot, creeping flush of shame, they weren’t going to fit over the hard-on he was getting just from holding them. From looking at Uncle Jim and taking his clothes off in front of him.

He turned to face the wall before dropping his briefs. Uncle Jim took another drink. Charlie could hear the long, hard swallow of it.

It seemed like it should have been harder, stepping into the panties and pulling them up. It seemed like whatever had stopped him from doing it up until today should have kept on stopping him. But they slid on like a dream, soft and cool on skin that felt like it was on fire.

“Turn around,” Uncle Jim said.

Charlie shook his head, staring at the wall. He couldn’t bear to look down and see his dick surging up against the satin, and he couldn’t bear the thought of Uncle Jim seeing it either.

“Turn around, Charlie.”

There wasn’t any out-loud threat hanging off the end of that sentence, but Charlie remembered how effortlessly Uncle Jim had held him still when he was fighting with all his strength. And what else was he going to do? Run out into the street in his t-shirt and a pair of girls’ underwear?

He turned around slowly..

“Jesus,” Uncle Jim said.

Charlie crossed his arms, his fingers plucking nervous at his shirt. He wanted to cover himself down there, but he knew that would only draw attention to how hard he was. His face burned, and his heart was beating so loud that he was sure Uncle Jim could hear it.

“Looks like they fit.”

They did. He could feel how they clung to him, snugger than his briefs but so flimsy that it felt like they were hardly there at all. After a second of awful indecision, he finally looked down. A soft, dry sound escaped his throat when he saw what he looked like. Delicate bands of lace swooped across his waist and around his thighs. His dick was standing straight up, the tip of it pressing just under the little bow, making it stick out. The glossy satin shimmered, rubbing against him every time he breathed.

“Are you some kind of queer, Charlie?”

The fire in his face burned even hotter. He struggled to answer, his voice sounding small and far away to his ears. “I don’t know.”

“You like guys?” Uncle Jim asked, reaching down and adjusting himself. “You like dick?”

Charlie’s gaze was drawn irresistibly to the bulge he’d been trying to ignore for weeks. “I don’t know.”

“You’re looking at mine.”

“I’m not,” he protested, but even he could hear how feeble it sounded.

“You want to see it?”

He did. Oh God, he did.

Uncle Jim’s voice softened. “Come here.”

Charlie couldn’t move. He could only stare as the buttons on Uncle Jim’s fly were popped open by one by one. Uncle Jim was wearing boxer shorts, white ones that were thin enough for Charlie to get a good idea of what was underneath. His stomach twisted in sick excitement as Uncle Jim pawed at himself, groping the long, thick shadow that lay against his thigh.

Even with that glimpse to go by, Charlie’s eyes still widened when Uncle Jim pulled it out. His lips parted, shaping a silent _‘Wowie.’_

He had only ever seen other guys naked in the showers at school, guys his own age. This was the first grown-up dick he had ever laid eyes on. It jutted from a dark bush with a pair of massive nuts underneath, flushed red and still growing. By the way it measured up in Uncle Jim’s broad hand, he was sure it wasn’t just big by high school standards. 

“You want some of this?” Uncle Jim gave it a long, squeezing stroke. 

Charlie licked his lips nervously.

“Yeah, you do,” Uncle Jim said. “Come here, honey.”

It was that last word that unstuck Charlie’s feet from the floor. The way Uncle Jim said it made something go shivery inside him, leaving him breathless. He walked forward haltingly, his gaze darting between Uncle Jim’s eyes and his lap. The satin shifted with every step, stroking him like it was something alive.

Uncle Jim put his beer bottle down. “That’s it. Get on your knees.”

He felt like he was sliding downhill, like going down was inevitable and saying no would be like breaking the laws of gravity. His bare shins settled on the cold floor. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, and he couldn’t take his eyes off Uncle Jim’s dick.

Uncle Jim reached out with a loosely clenched fist and rubbed his thumb across Charlie’s lower lip. It felt like static electricity, light and ticklish. Charlie exhaled unsteadily and then made a faint sound of alarm when Uncle Jim grabbed the back of his neck.

“Shh.” Uncle Jim’s hand tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make Charlie’s shoulders droop.

Charlie swallowed hard, tamping down on another sound before it could squeak out.

“Open your mouth.”

With an uncertain glance upwards, Charlie obeyed.

“Jesus,” Uncle Jim murmured. “You really do look a girl, you know that?”

Charlie found himself pulled closer, and before he was a hundred percent sure what was happening, the tip of Uncle Jim’s dick was touching his lips. He had opened his mouth, but not nearly far enough, and later it would occur to him that he probably could have decided to clamp his jaw shut instead. But in the moment, it didn’t feel like any decision at all. He opened wider for it without a second thought.

“Fuck.” Uncle Jim’s hand slid up from his neck to the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair. “That’s it.”

Just like that, after at least a year of telling himself that maybe he wasn’t, Charlie was a cocksucker.

Everything Charlie knew about French jobs had come second-hand from stories in the schoolyard. Sometimes he’d secretly wondered if people really did that kind of thing or if the other boys were pulling his leg. Now he had his answer. His head was pushed down, forcing more of Uncle Jim’s dick into his mouth until there wasn’t any room left. 

He made a sound without meaning to, something that started high and soft and then turned to a gurgle as Uncle Jim’s dick hit the back of his throat. One hand grabbed for the couch, trying to brace himself. The other was reaching down. He couldn’t help it, he needed to touch himself so bad. The full slippery-soft feeling of the satin sliding between his palm and his dick nearly made his eyes roll back in his head.

Uncle Jim muttered something that Charlie couldn’t hear, pushing up into his mouth at the same time. He could probably see Charlie’s arm moving, probably knew he was touching himself, probably thought he was the worst kind of pervert, but Charlie couldn’t stop. Every part of him was buzzing, running shocks of electricity between his wide-open mouth and his throbbing hard-on. 

He sucked on Uncle Jim’s dick even harder, trying to keep from drooling and only halfway succeeding. His mouth was running over, making dirty slurping noises as Uncle Jim guided his head up and down. With his lips stretched and his tongue pinned, the only thing halfway to a word he could make was _‘ah’_ , and he did, over and over again.

“Ahh...” He was stroking himself faster now, almost screwing into his own hand, so hot he couldn’t think straight. “Ahh...ahh… _ah!_ ”

He went rigid, his whole body thrumming, and then he shook loose with the hardest spunk of his life. His eyes welled up and over with the force of it. His throat choked, giving up another inch to the monster in his mouth. Everything went wet down there, jism soaking into satin and smearing all over his dick. The good feeling seemed to just keep going, his hips jerking helplessly as Uncle Jim’s voice floated over him, roughened and swearing, asked if he was creaming his panties, telling him he was sweet, a sweet little thing—

Dazed and unable to even feel the floor under him anymore, Charlie was dimly aware that he was sucking a lot more clumsily, but Uncle Jim didn’t seem to mind. He could hear him breathing harder, and then he felt a bright sting as the grip on his hair tightened. There was a low grunt and then a sudden taste in Charlie’s mouth that he guiltily recognized.

“Swallow it,” Uncle Jim whispered urgently. “Swallow it for me, honey.”

He tried his best, gulping the load down as Uncle Jim let out a long, satisfied sigh. There was too much of it, though, and too little room for anything in his mouth but dick. Some of it spilled over, dripping from the corner of his mouth and down his chin. He was left gasping and gaping when Uncle Jim finally let him go. His jaw hurt a little at the hinges and his lips were half numb and half tingling. Trippy spots floated across his vision as he looked up at Uncle Jim’s flushed face and then down at the massive dark splotch on the front of the panties he was wearing.

Oh God. 

Realization fully dawning now that his brain could be heard over his dick, he scrambled backwards. He grabbed his pants and briefs, jumped up on wobbly legs, and bolted to the bathroom. 

After the door was safely slammed shut behind him, he stripped off the panties. He ran them under cold water until they were dark all over, the evidence of his own contribution washing away invisibly. He washed his face. He washed his dick. He put his clothes back on. His briefs felt rough on places that were still sensitive.

Not knowing what else to do with them, he dried the panties as best he could on his towel and then shoved them, still damp, into his pocket. The television had come back on in the living room. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time before accepting the fact that, no, he probably couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. 

Eventually, he cracked the door and peeked out. Uncle Jim had buttoned his jeans back up and was sitting on the couch with a second bottle of beer like nothing had happened. Charlie edged out of the bathroom. Uncle Jim glanced over at him and then patted the cushion beside him.

Match Game was just starting, Gene Rayburn’s voice so familiar and normal that it let Charlie put away his stranger thoughts. He came and sat down, looking to see who was on the panel this episode. 

Uncle Jim took a drink of his beer. Then, to Charlie’s surprise, he held it out. 

Charlie took and tried a sip. It was bitter, and while it chased away the aftertaste of jism from his mouth, he wasn’t sure he actually liked it better. 

Uncle Jim took the bottle back. He slung his other arm over the back of the couch and gave Charlie’s shoulder a weird, rough kind of jostle. It didn’t last long, but it made Charlie’s stomach flutter, and the warmth of his hand stayed long after he’d taken it away. They watched television together for an hour in complete silence before making bologna sandwiches for dinner like any other school night.

* * *

The next few days were weird, especially when they weren’t.

Charlie went to school like nothing had changed. He sat in his classes, trying to focus on the lessons but sure that what he’d done was written all over his face for everyone to see. He read magazines and watched television and thought about Uncle Jim’s hand in his hair. He did his homework and thought about Uncle Jim’s dick in his mouth. At night, he wiggled into the panties under the blankets as he lay on the couch and played the whole memory through from start to finish like a blue movie, jerking off until he was sore.

The silences in the apartment felt thick and fragile at the same time. Uncle Jim started coming home later than he usually did, leaving Charlie alone for long stretches after school. Unsure of what else to do, Charlie started cleaning up and making dinner. He had done that sort of thing when his mother was working, in the years after his father had died and before she had taken off. He liked listening to the afternoon radio as he pottered around, and he liked that no matter what, after an hour or so, _something_ had been accomplished. Maybe it wasn’t anything big or impressive, but it was something you could point to, something that was nicer than it had been before.

He didn’t know how to cook a whole lot of things, but he took the rest of the spending money Uncle Jim had given him last week and bought some spaghetti, a can of red sauce and a pound of ground beef from the market. He made dinner for himself and left a plate warming in the oven for whenever Uncle Jim got in. The morning after he did this for the first time, Charlie woke up to find two sawbucks on the kitchen table along with a note that read: _Spending Money + Grocery Money_. He broke one of the bills to buy a carton of milk, a dozen eggs, a pound of bacon and two cans of brown beans.

On Friday night, Uncle Jim got ready to go out. Charlie watched him from the couch, stealing glances as he shaved in the bathroom with the door open to let the steam out. Uncle Jim wore a towel around his waist, and Charlie could see all of his bare back and a sliver of his face and chest in the mirror. He listened to the soft scrape of a razorblade over stubble, the splish of water and the slap of aftershave, and had to lower the magazine he was reading over his lap.

Uncle Jim dressed in the bedroom and came out in his good jeans and charcoal grey shirt.

“Take the bed,” he said like he always did, slipping his wallet into his back pocket. “I’ll be out late.”

Charlie nodded and watched him go. He heard the footsteps going down the stairwell and a minute later heard the truck start up in the street behind the apartment. He read his magazine for a while longer, wondering if he could get away with buying _House Beautiful_ or maybe something with recipes in it from the newsstand, or if Pineford was so small that somebody would know he wasn’t buying them for his mother. He wondered if Uncle Jim was going to Cardinal’s bar tonight.

The Friday Night Movie had Tony Curtis in it, so Charlie stayed up late to watch the whole thing before brushing his teeth and going to bed. He didn’t own any pajamas that fit anymore, so he stripped down to his briefs. The apartment was quiet. Even though this was Main Street, there were long periods of time in between the passing of a car or a voice from the sidewalk. Charlie tried lying down in the dark for a while, but he found himself restless and eventually switched on the light.

He had gotten nosy before and poked through the things in Uncle Jim’s dresser. Aside from clothes, it was where Uncle Jim kept his old medals and army paperwork, bills and licenses. There was also a short stack of _Playboy_ and _Modern Man_ magazines, a bottle of hand lotion, and a couple of boxes of rubber safeties that seemed to get restocked on the regular. Charlie had never actually seen a safety up close before and was tempted to unwrap one, but he figured Uncle Jim probably knew exactly how many he had.

Instead, he paged through last month’s issue of _Modern Man_. In between the articles about cars and movie stars were pictures of smiling ladies with big bosoms and red lipstick. Some of them wore lingerie and a couple of them had no tops on at all. Looking at them didn’t exactly make him excited, but thinking about Uncle Jim looking at them did. He considered that mental picture for a while, imagining Uncle Jim sitting up against the headboard, holding the magazine open to the center spread as he stroked his big dick nice and slow. Charlie pulled down his briefs, grabbed a squeeze of lotion from the bottle in the drawer, and went at it a whole lot faster. 

He fell asleep easy afterwards and didn’t wake up until he heard the sound of jangling keys turning in a lock. It was the middle of the night. He knew this without opening his eyes, the bedroom too dark and cool for morning. The front door opened and closed quietly. Uncle Jim had only come home before sunrise once before and had slept on the couch that time. Charlie listened, part of him still drifting mid-sleep, expecting to hear the squeak of the couch springs or maybe the sound of the refrigerator opening. 

Instead, the footsteps came towards the bedroom. 

Charlie was lying on his side, cuddling the pillow. He felt the air move on the back of his neck when the bedroom door opened. All of a sudden, he was fully awake. 

His first thought was that Uncle Jim had forgotten about him. He had probably been out drinking and had come home wanting to climb into his own bed, forgetting that he’d made the mistake of taking in some nephew he hardly even knew. But if that was the case, Charlie expected to hear a gruff sigh and the bedroom door closing again. Uncle Jim just stood there. 

Maybe, Charlie thought, swearing he could feel the weight of Uncle Jim’s gaze on his back—maybe Uncle Jim was just looking in on him. Maybe he did it every weekend and this was just the first time that Charlie had woken up. His heart started beating faster. He held still, not buying his own story for a second. 

The footsteps came closer. The mattress dipped as Uncle Jim sat on the edge of the bed behind him. He smelled like booze and smoke, as he often did on weekend mornings. The smell of booze seemed stronger than usual, and overtop it was a hint of something sweet, like ladies’ perfume. Before Charlie could figure out what that meant, a chill prickled along his side. Uncle Jim had carefully pulled down the covers. 

Charlie didn’t know if Uncle Jim could tell he was awake. He tried to keep his breathing soft and even just in case, but it snagged when Uncle Jim touched his bare leg. His shiver could have been from lying almost naked in a cool room without a blanket, but his goosebumps only sprang up under Uncle Jim’s hand. The touch moved lightly up his thigh and then over his hip. 

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” Uncle Jim’s voice was quiet, but it had an edge to it that Charlie had never heard before.

He swallowed hard, not knowing how to answer that. The hand on his hip suddenly gripped him, making his back arch in surprise. He had seen girls get their asses grabbed, but aside from getting walloped, Charlie had never been touched there before. 

“I drove all the way out to Grablehurst,” Uncle Jim said, that edge getting sharper. “I picked up the hottest piece I could find. Every guy in the place wanted her.” His thumb rubbed between Charlie’s cheeks, making him squirm. “She was up for it, too. Let me put it anywhere I wanted.” There was the sound of a belt unbuckling. “And I still couldn’t get you out of my head.”

Charlie was pushed face-down into the bed. Uncle Jim was suddenly on top of him.

He cried out in surprise, but the sound was smothered in the pillow. Uncle Jim grabbed at him. He was pinned by the back of his neck, and his briefs were yanked down. Something frantic flooded him, something that made his arms and legs freeze at the same time as his dick sprang up. 

Uncle Jim’s full weight bore down on him. Charlie squirmed, turning his head so he could breathe. His dick was trapped between his belly and the bed, swelling even harder as it rubbed against the sheets. On the other side was the friction of denim and cotton, the scrape of buttons. The mattress dipped lower on either side of him for a moment, and then he felt something smoother against his ass. Something hotter. Bare skin. Uncle Jim’s dick pushing at him. 

“Are you cherry?” Uncle Jim asked, his mouth close to Charlie’s ear.

Wide-eyed with shock, Charlie could hardly make sense of the question. Up until that instant, it had never occurred to him that boys could be cherry. He nodded uncertainly and then, unaware if Uncle Jim had seen it, found his voice.

“Y-yeah.”

“Yeah?” Uncle Jim said, suddenly breathing a little harder as he pressed his hips down. “You weren’t selling it in the city?”

Charlie wasn’t sure exactly what he would be selling, but he shook his head. “I never—I mean, until the other day—”

“Jesus.” For the first time that night, Charlie thought he heard a hint of a smile. “Is that right, honey? I was your first?”

That ‘honey’ made Charlie shiver again. “Yeah.”

“Don’t worry,” Uncle Jim said, his voice low and almost sweet. “I’m going to be nice to you, all right?”

Charlie relaxed a little. “All right.”

The weight on top of him lifted, but not all the way. Uncle Jim kept a hand in the middle of Charlie’s back, like he thought he might try to get away. Charlie heard one of the drawers open. He managed to raise himself up a little on his elbows to look. Enough streetlight came in through the curtains to make the room a deep gray instead of perfect black, and he could see Uncle Jim’s silhouette. He heard the rummaging of paper and plastic against wood, and then Uncle Jim pulled out the bottle of lotion.

Charlie learned how a boy could be cherry half a second after he wasn’t anymore.

It was only later that the jumble of feelings and noises in the dark made any sense. His legs were spread apart. A cold spurt of lotion hit his tailbone and dripped down over his asshole. Then Uncle Jim put his—

He didn’t understand at first that Uncle Jim had stopped on third while rounding the bases. He didn’t know that he was getting fingered, like how people talked about girls getting fingered. He had no clue that the feeling of being turned inside-out was only getting started, and that something a whole lot bigger was going to be up him soon. All he knew was that the lotion was freezing and everything else was a rushing wave of red-hot, turned-on embarrassment.

“There we go,” Uncle Jim was saying. “Let’s get you good and wet, huh?”

Charlie heard himself making high, breathy sounds as his hole stretched wider. Then all of a sudden, just as quickly as it had started, the pressure was gone. Nothing was inside him, but he still felt weirdly open. The whole world seemed to wobble as the mattress dipped and rose. He heard the sound of a belt slithering out of its loops and a thump as it hit the floor. Something softer landed after it, maybe Uncle Jim’s shirt. Another splat of lotion came out of the bottle.

When Uncle Jim tried to put it in for real, Charlie’s eyes crossed. He arched up with a gasp, and the sound that tore out of his throat was cut short as Uncle Jim’s hand clamped over his mouth.

“Shhh…I know, I know, honey. It’s big, huh?”

Charlie nodded frantically, grabbing at the sheets.

Uncle Jim’s hand pressed harder, holding him so he couldn’t squirm away, but the pushing stopped. “Yeah, it is. But you’re going to like it. Once I get it in, you’ll be making those hot little noises again in no time.”

His death grip on the sheets eased as Uncle Jim just rubbed against him for a while. When it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere, Uncle Jim uncovered his mouth. Charlie’s hard-on had turned softened, but the slippery feeling of Uncle Jim’s big dick sliding over his hole brought it surging back. A kiss landed on the back of his neck. It was just a peck, but the next few were hotter and wetter, with a little suction that made Charlie moan. 

“That’s the ticket. Sweet thing like you needs a little romance, huh?”

Charlie breathed out a laugh, the jangling in his nerves dying down.

“Turn over,” Uncle Jim said, lifting up to give him room.

He rolled onto his back, his eyelids fluttering for an instant when his hard-on touched something other than the sheets. Uncle Jim was still in his jeans, his dick jutting from the open fly, but he’d stripped down to his undershirt and his muscles were taut as he held himself up. He was looking down with an expression that Charlie couldn’t quite make out in the shadows. 

“Jesus. I could put you in a dress and take you down to Cardinal’s. No one would know the difference.”

The next kiss was on his mouth, fast and forceful. It wasn’t Charlie’s first, exactly. He was a slow runner, and girls had been chasing him down on the playground since he was little, mashing their lips against his and then darting away laughing. But this one was long and hard, surrounded by heavy breathing and the shockingly good sensation of rubbing his dick against someone else’s stomach. Uncle Jim’s tongue slipped into his mouth, making everything tingle when it touched his own. 

His legs were pushed back until they nearly touched his shoulders. He barely had time to blush about it before Uncle Jim was braced over him trying to put it in again. This time he closed his eyes, bit his lip and let it happen. 

There was no keeping quiet. Sometimes he whimpered and other times a raspy sound came from deep in his throat. He pushed at Uncle Jim’s chest one second and grabbed onto his undershirt to pull him closer the next, bouncing between the _no, no, no_ of a stretch that felt impossible and the _oh god, yes_ of a filled-up, throbbing feeling that echoed through his belly and his chest. 

It went in a little at time, each inch feeling thicker than the last. He thought about how far around his lips had stretched to suck it, and his dick jerked against his stomach as he imagined himself stretched just as wide down there. He was folded right in two by the end of it, breathing so fast the room seemed to spin. But it fit. 

He could hear Uncle Jim’s ragged breathing. Feel his muscles shifting. Feel him _inside_ him. 

“Fuck, Charlie…”

Uncle Jim had been right. As soon as he started moving, Charlie started moaning. He couldn’t help it, the breathy sounds coming out of his mouth with every rocking motion, like everything inside him had to move to make room and his lungs were getting worked like a pair bellows. He was sliding up the bed every time Uncle Jim pushed in, and so he held on to the sturdiest thing he could. His legs wrapped around Uncle Jim’s waist. His arms wrapped around his neck. 

His eyes closed tight and his toes curled in as Uncle Jim started really giving it to him. He could feel Uncle Jim’s nuts smacking against his ass, and that echoing, filled-up feeling in his belly got even stronger. His dick bounced against his stomach with every thrust, and sometimes when his legs bent back far enough, it bounced against Uncle Jim’s stomach too and spurted out some of the stuff that he only leaked when he was so hot he thought he would die. 

“Oh g-od!” His voice warbled in the middle of the word, rattled by the thrusts that just kept coming. 

He shot so hard it was deafening. The squeal of the bedsprings seemed a mile away. He could feel Uncle Jim breathing hot and heavy on top of him, but he suddenly couldn’t hear it. His legs squeezed tight around Uncle Jim’s waist, his back arching until he thought it would snap. He could feel the wet mess on his chest, nearly on his chin. His lungs burned as he gasped for breath. 

Everything after that was a dizzy blur. He was loose as a ragdoll, still making little sounds in his throat as something raw inside him twanged. There were words in his ear, whispers that sounded like matches being struck—“Oh yeah,” and “Fuck,” and “That’s it, honey”—and then Uncle Jim was groaning and shoving it into him so hard he felt it in his teeth. One more time. Twice. Three times before he finally stopped.

He didn’t feel Uncle Jim pull out. Everything from his belly button to his knees was shaky and hot. All he knew was that when Uncle Jim rolled them both over, he could feel something dripping down the back of his thigh. The lotion, he thought vaguely, and then realized that it wasn’t. Uncle Jim hadn’t used a safety because of course he hadn’t. Charlie wasn’t a girl. Uncle Jim had stuck it in bare and shot his load inside him, and that was his jism trickling out of Charlie’s asshole.

The thought was so dirty that Charlie shivered, his dick managing one last feeble twitch. Uncle Jim murmured something and dragged the covers up over them both. His arm was warm where it lay across Charlie’s back, and the weight of it pulled him down into the best sleep of his life. 

It was fully morning when he next woke up, his head pillowed on Uncle Jim’s shoulder. He lay there for several minutes, taking stock of the slight soreness in his ass and the overwhelmingly nice feeling in his chest. He sat up cautiously, and looked down at Uncle Jim in the daylight. His face looked relaxed and maybe even a little pleased with himself. His undershirt had ridden up over his stomach, and his jeans were still unbuttoned. The sight made Charlie’s morning wood a lot more urgent.

Not wanting to wake him up if he was still tired, Charlie slipped out of the bed quietly. He tiptoed into the bathroom and washed up. He got a change of clothes from the living room and then went into the kitchen to start making breakfast.

The bacon was almost done when Charlie heard Uncle Jim get up. There were the sounds that he expected, like running water, followed by a few that he couldn’t place, like Uncle Jim walking around the living room and then opening a door. When he peeked out of the kitchen, he saw Uncle Jim closing the hall closet. The blankets and pillow had disappeared from the couch.

They didn’t have all that much to say as they sat down at the kitchen table together, Charlie blushing and Uncle Jim looking a little bit hungover around the eyes. But Uncle Jim smiled a lopsided smile before sipping the coffee that Charlie had made, and he cleaned his plate twice over. Charlie hesitantly smiled back and soon found he couldn’t stop.

* * *

The hills around Pineford could only be described as out of sight by the time October rolled around. The pines that gave the town its name were the dark green backdrop for all the reds, oranges and yellows of the maples, oaks and hickories. The day was cool and clear, and Charlie had the window open to enjoy the view and cool down the kitchen after baking his first ever batch of chocolate chip cookies. 

He was putting together sandwiches out of last night’s meatloaf and thinking about how those old curtains really needed to be replaced. How hard could it be to make a new set? Mrs. Jenkins who ran the Singer sewing shop downstairs seemed nice. She had smiled and waved at him through the shop window this morning when she saw him coming home with a grocery bag and a bouquet of daisies for the kitchen table. Maybe she could give him some pointers. 

Charlie wrapped the sandwiches neatly in waxed paper and packed them in brown paper bags along with a bundle of carrot sticks and an apple each. According to _Good Housekeeping_ , fruits and vegetables were what separated an abundant lunch from a merely adequate one. He wrapped up the cookies too, loaded everything in the basket of his new bicycle, and set off down Main Street.

He zipped through streets full of candy-colored houses and neighborhood parks, feeling like some director was going to call ‘cut!’ at any second. The sun was straight overhead in a cloudless blue sky, but the brisk air kept him from getting too hot as he stood on the pedals and cranked his way uphill on Meadowview Road.

“Hey, McCormick—you’ve got a visitor!”

The new conservatory on the Brooks place was almost finished, at least to Charlie’s untrained eye. All of the glass was put in, gleaming in the sunlight, and paint cans sat on a pallet outside along with a stack of pale gray stone tiles.

“Why does the kid get to punch in at noon?” Dave complained, then threw a wink at Charlie to show he wasn’t serious.

“Because he’s bringing me my lunch,” Uncle Jim said, climbing down from off the conservatory roof. 

“Did you bring enough for the whole class?” Mike asked.

“Sorry.” Charlie leaned his bicycle against the pallet and unpacked the basket. “I brought cookies though.”

Mike laughed. “No kidding? You’re all right, Chuck.”

Mr. Jackson took the whole bag of them out of Charlie’s hands and ruffled his hair. Fortunately, Charlie had packed extras. 

He and Uncle Jim ate lunch in the bed fo the pick-up, which was parked down at the bottom of the driveway to give them some privacy. They had a good view of the town below, and of the house next door’s huge yard, which was full of falling oak leaves and squirrels scampering to find any last-minute snacks. The shouted conversations and laughter up at the Brooks house were just a distant buzz compared to the sound of the wind in the trees.

“I got you something,” Uncle Jim said as he finished his sandwich. “Go look in the truck.”

It wasn’t his birthday. Charlie frowned at Uncle Jim, whose face didn’t give a thing away. He hopped down and went to investigate. There was a bag sitting on the passenger side seat. He opened the door and saw that it was from Woolworth’s. He reached in, twitched aside some of the parcelling paper, and froze when he caught a glimmer of pale blue. 

His heart started beating faster. He looked around quickly to make sure no one was watching and then dug through the bag with trembling hands. There wasn’t just a brand new pair of satin panties. There was a matching camisole too.

He could hear Uncle Jim climb down after him. 

“You like them?”

Charlie was still standing stock-still as Uncle Jim came up behind him. He managed to look at him for an instant, wide-eyed, and then looked back at the bag. 

“That much, huh? Good. I figured I’d take you out tonight.”

The underthings slid out of Charlie’s hands, pooling back into the bag with a beautiful shine. “You—what?”

Uncle Jim squeezed his hip behind the cover of the open door. “What, you think I’m not going to respect you anymore because you’re putting out?”

Charlie felt his stomach wobble at the teasing tone. It was a really nice feeling.

“You going to keep putting out?” Uncle Jim asked.

He bit his lip and couldn’t help teasing back. “Maybe.”

Uncle Jim laughed. “What, do I have to show you a good time first? Take you to the drive-in, maybe?”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, grinning. “That’s it.”

“For a keeper like you?” Uncle Jim slung an arm around Charlie’s shoulders and steered him back to the tailgate to finish their lunch. “I can do that.”


End file.
